It Is What It Is
by Joodiff
Summary: An old crime scene, an interesting discovery, and an unexpected conversation. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** _I own nothing._

_Happy birthday to both missDuncan and Got Tea. xx_

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**It Is What It Is**

by Joodiff

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"Wow," Eve comments, looking around her at the dusty, fading evidence of previous decades. "How long did you say this place has been empty?"

Boyd glances in her direction. "Since the early 'eighties."

"_Eighteen_-eighties?" she inquires, pausing to investigate the blackened fireplace half-hidden behind a crooked stack of elderly chairs. She finds only soot and cobwebs, and what might be the mummified remains of an unfortunate pigeon.

"Traditional East End boozer," Boyd says, walking towards the long-abandoned jukebox crookedly positioned between a door labelled 'Toilets' in bold black letters, and an empty cigarette vending machine that looks as if it was thoroughly raided by avaricious vandals at least two decades ago. As he moves, Eve can hear the crunching of stray shards of glass under his feet. Whether those shards are from bottles, glasses, or the pub's boarded up windows she doesn't know. Yet. She will take some samples before they leave, even though there's no reason to doubt the original investigation's conclusion that Ramsey was killed exactly where his badly decomposed body was eventually found – in the semi-derelict building's cellar.

Moving away from the fireplace, she takes a moment to study the empty space behind the bar presumably once occupied by a long row of bottles and optics, and tries to imagine the place in its thriving heyday, before the grim bite of recession, and the dramatic change of demographic that began during the Thatcher years. Tries to imagine a time when the patrons would likely have been ordinary working-class labourers, not the affluent young city types whose arrival pushed house prices beyond the means of many born and bred in the area. A time just before pesto, mineral water, and satellite television.

"'Baker Street'," Boyd announces.

Bemused, Eve looks round at him. "What?"

"Jukebox," he explains, gesturing at the object in question. "Gerry Rafferty."

"Oh." She walks over to him, peers at the faded list of songs, many of which just pre-date her teenage years. "Supertramp… Abba. The Bee Gees. Takes you back, doesn't it?"

"Not really my kind of music." More than a touch derisive.

She chuckles. "I know – I've seen the CDs in your car."

"No CDs here," Boyd's tone is reflective, "just good old-fashioned vinyl."

Amused, Eve is almost tempted to pat him affectionately on the shoulder. It doesn't seem altogether appropriate, so she settles for, "Well, when Grace finally gets here, you two can take a nostalgic trip down memory lane together. Reminisce about the good old days of rickets, rationing, and post-war austerity."

His response is dry. "Can't wait."

Smirking, Eve wanders away, heading for the saloon bar at the rear of the building. Like many things in life, Peter Boyd is an acquired taste, but one that she does seem to have gradually managed to acquire since joining the CCU. Not in _that_ way, of course. No, most definitely not in _that_ way, she thinks with an inward grimace. Besides being a good fifteen years older, he's simply not her type. Even the thought is… well, disturbing. And all kinds of wrong. Anyway, despite a notable lack of any confirmation from either party, Eve knows damn well he's spoken for. _Very_ spoken for, if she's any judge of character – which she most definitely is. No, she's certainly become quietly fond of him – most of the time – but unlike Grace, she simply can't see the attraction. She supposes he's handsome enough, in a rugged, older-man sort of way, and she knows he can be charming when he wants to be, but quite what it is about him that seems to draw women in despite his fiery, abrasive character…

The trivial, idle thoughts melt away, replaced by cool, clinical curiosity as she looks around her. The saloon bar is as musty, neglected, and frozen in time as the public bar. Perhaps even more so. In place of a jukebox there's an unlovely, battle-scarred upright piano, the sort she remembers from school assemblies, and lying abandoned on one of the battered tables is what appears to be an ancient, dusty Shove Ha'penny board. It immediately reminds Eve of her grandfather, and of warm summer evenings happily spent loitering by the village pond outside the pub while he 'did a bit of business' with one or other of his gnarled old cronies. Boyd's right, this is – _was_ – a very traditional sort of pub. No beeping arcade games, no fruit machines. The memory of decades of tobacco smoke, beer and local gossip are doubtless deeply ingrained into its timbers. Not for much longer. In just a few weeks there won't be anything left of the old George and Dragon as it's bulldozed along with half the houses in the street to make way for an ambitious new shopping centre. Last chance for the CCU to examine the exact spot where an unwary group of teenagers looking for somewhere to party found the sad and gruesome remains of Philip Ramsey.

The sound of footsteps makes Eve turn. Boyd appears in the doorway, a tall, imposing figure who currently looks every bit as tough and uncompromising as his fearsome reputation suggests. She isn't fazed. So-far unused torch in hand, she suggests, "Cellar?"

"Cellar," he agrees.

-oOo-

Working alone in the damp gloom, Boyd having returned to the floor above to wait for Grace, it doesn't take Eve very long to decide that there's little, if anything, to be gained from an extensive investigation of the pub's cellar. Though unsuccessful in identifying a perpetrator – or even a strong suspect – the original investigation was thorough, and after more than fifteen years she doubts there is anything left to find that hasn't degraded beyond use, or been repeatedly contaminated. She takes a few careful samples anyway, sketches a quick but accurate map of the cellar's layout, and finally uses her phone to take some fresh photographs to augment the original high-quality images already in the casefiles. There's nothing new to be found here, she's sure of it, just as she's fairly certain Boyd is. There are far too many other unsolved cases in the archive for them to dwell too long on the half-forgotten and apparently motiveless murder of a homeless, friendless alcoholic, not when there are no new leads to follow up. Still, with the building scheduled for demolition, it's worth spending a few hours making sure that –

Her meditative thoughts are disturbed by an unexpected sound from above. Muffled, but quite unmistakably the sound of someone picking out notes on the upright piano she noticed in the corner of the saloon bar. Lips quirking, Eve assumes Grace has at last arrived, presumably driving straight to the derelict pub from the hospital and whichever tiresome but important set of tests she's had to endure this week. Somehow it doesn't surprise her that Grace has such a hitherto undisclosed talent. What Boyd is making of it… but then his tolerance towards Grace and her foibles has been nothing short of remarkable for rather more than the last six months. Only to be expected, Eve supposes, but even so, it's been amusing to watch him manfully biting back his irritation, and struggling to keep his notoriously hot temper in check on an almost daily basis.

The piano falls silent, leaving her to picture the growling displeasure that presumably terminated the impromptu performance, but to her surprise, a moment later she can hear what is definitely and recognisably someone – Grace – starting to play in earnest. A slow sort of tempo, a little haunting, infuriatingly familiar. Classical music isn't really Eve's forte, but crouched on her haunches in the semi-darkness, she tentatively decides it's Beethoven. Beethoven's Something or Other in Something.

Deciding that nothing more can be achieved in the cellar, she packs everything away into the aluminium flight case that she uses to carry the bare essentials necessary for such tasks, then subjects the cellar to a last sweeping look before making her way to the stairs. The sound of the piano becomes a little more distinct as she ascends, but the lack of any audible conversation surprises her. Not for one moment does she think Boyd is patient enough to simply stand and listen to Beethoven when he could be pacing around, theorising loudly. Maybe the spell Grace seems to have cast over him in the last few months is stronger than anyone's so far imagined. It's an entertaining thought, the big, irascible police officer brought so effectively to heel by a tiny – if formidable – woman a few years his senior.

Placing her case on one of the few surviving tables left in the public bar, Eve goes in search of her colleagues. If nothing else, she intends to find out where Grace learnt to play so well. Hardly up to concert pianist standard, of course, but competent, and far better than Eve herself could ever hope to be. Truth be told, she barely mastered the basics of the descant recorder at school, and never managed to get any noise that qualified as even vaguely melodic from the elderly violin given to her by an expectant – and sadly deluded – great aunt. Not one of her strengths, the ability to play a musical instrument.

She walks into the saloon bar soft-footed, not wanting to disturb the moment, and as she does so, two things immediately strike her. Firstly, that it is not Grace, but Boyd, sitting at the old piano, and secondly that there is, in fact, no sign of Grace at all. Genuinely taken aback, she stands still and silent, watching Boyd as he plays on, apparently oblivious to her presence. Intrigued, she finds herself studying his hands, their unexpected agile sensitivity bemusing her. What she's seeing doesn't make any sense. This cannot, she thinks, be the same man who can spectacularly lose his temper over something as trivial as a mislaid memo. Cannot be the same man who will pugnaciously face down the most hardened and dangerous of criminals without a single qualm. Cannot, in fact, by any stretch of the imagination be Detective Superintendent Peter Boyd.

"Grace is running late," he says, not looking round. "There was a delay at the hospital. I told her we'd wait, since this is probably the only chance she'll get to see the crime scene itself."

From behind he certainly looks like Boyd, the piano player – same broad shoulders, same spiky silver hair. He sounds like Boyd, too, the voice deep and smooth, but touched with the tiniest lingering trace of South London on certain words; a subtle hint of the tenacious Bermondsey kid who grew up to be a copper, and a damn good one, at that. Yes, it definitely appears to be Boyd sitting at the piano, all things taken into consideration. Eve doesn't bother to ask how he knew she was there – he has preternaturally good hearing as many a chagrined young constable will sheepishly testify. Instead, she asks, "Where did you learn to play like that?"

He doesn't stop playing, as she half expects. Doesn't spare her even the slightest glance, either. "Surprised?"

"Yes," she admits, wondering if her laconic honesty will raise a wry, twinkly-eyed smile. Impossible to know.

Still, he plays on. "Never judge a book by its cover, Eve."

"Touché." She walks towards him, finally coming to a halt beside the piano. "Needs tuning."

"Mm."

Again, her attention is drawn to his hands. Deft, strong, and capable, but certainly not the elegant hands of a pianist. Doesn't seem to matter. There's something fascinating about both the dexterity of his fingers and the uncharacteristic subtlety visible in the way they almost seem to caress the piano's keys. It makes her think of Grace again. More specifically, it makes her think of Grace and Boyd, and the intimate secrets they must share. Almost against her will, Eve begins to understand. At least, she thinks she does.

As if he can read her thoughts, he says, "It may be a cliché, but it's true that opposites can attract, you know."

The blunt non sequitur catches Eve by surprise. Startled as she is, however, she has no doubt about exactly who and what Boyd is referring to. Raising her gaze from his hands to his face, she studies him for a moment, attempting to formulate a careful but honest response. It's not as easy as she expects. She says, "None of my business."

He does look at her then, intelligent dark eyes studying her with an intensity she finds unsettling. "You're right. It's not."

Instinct makes her offer, "But…?"

"But…" a quiet, familiar female voice says from behind them, "perhaps the Big Bad Wolf isn't quite as big and bad as you think."

Boyd, no longer looking at her, carries on playing, not missing a single note. Eve can feel a guilty flush rising in her cheeks as she turns to face the newcomer. "Grace."

"_Moonlight Sonata_," the older woman pronounces, walking towards them. "One of my all-time favourite pieces of music."

"_Sonata quasi una fantasia_." Boyd's voice is bland, holds no hint of surprise or vexation.

"Look," Eve begins, but she falters immediately, not sure what she wants to say, let alone how to say it. She tries again. "It's really nothing to do with me."

Grace has reached Boyd's side. The hand she puts on his shoulder is deliberate, gentle, and utterly proprietorial. He doesn't flinch, merely glances up at her with the ghost of a smile. Grace's expression is calm. Serene. Understanding, even. She says, "But you have concerns."

It's not a question, Eve realises. Striking blue eyes are watching her intently, and for a moment it feels as if all her thoughts and fears are laid bare under their scrutiny. It's not an uncommon sensation when talking to Grace, and Eve has always suspected it's one of the things about her that has always fascinated – and perhaps frightened – Boyd. Shrugging, she says, "Even if I did, it's not my place to – "

"Look at him, Eve," Grace says, still absolutely serene. "He's just a man. Not a myth or a monster. Just a perfectly ordinary divorced middle-aged man."

"Thanks," Boyd mutters.

"You don't have to understand," Grace continues, ignoring the interjection. "Heaven knows, I don't understand it myself half of the time – "

"I'm still here, you know." It's a grumble of complaint, but it lacks any bite.

" – and you don't have to approve. You just have to accept that it is what it is."

"I do," Eve says, and as she says it she realises that she does. She and Grace have become good friends; unlikely friends, maybe, but good friends nonetheless. And as for Boyd… well, acquired taste or not, for all his faults he's a decent man, and a surprisingly kind one. A big man with a big heart. A big temper, too, but that's never seemed to worry Grace. She offers a rueful smile. "I feel a little bit as if I've been ambushed."

"Told you she was too damn smart for her own good," Boyd comments. As far as Eve can tell, he's abandoned Beethoven and wandered off into some kind of slow, easy improvisation of tumbling notes that's strangely soothing on the ear.

Grace replies with a soft chuckle. Then, "It was my idea."

"Well, obviously." Looking from one to the other, her gaze finally settles on Grace. "Why?"

"Because I knew you knew. Because I knew you struggled to understand. Because I wanted to reassure you." There's something both calm and incisive about the words. "Because we all have to work together, Eve."

"I'm not the sort to rock the boat, Grace, you know that."

"But you are the sort to worry about a friend. Or am I wrong?"

"You're not wrong."

A slow nod. "You don't need to worry."

Eve's gaze wanders momentarily to the back of Boyd's head. It doesn't surprise her that he's contributed so very little to the conversation. She's only surprised that he allowed it to take place at all. Perhaps Grace is right, perhaps the Big Bad Wolf isn't so big and bad, not at heart, not where it matters. Oh, of course Grace is right. That's exactly why they're together, isn't it? Because she knows the man in all his moods, and loves him regardless.

"I know," she says belatedly. No more words needed, and for now it's just the music that disturbs the empty peace. Hopeful notes, poignant notes. Notes of love and acceptance. Notes of friendship.

Eve settles quietly on one of the few remaining unbroken chairs. Strangely, she doesn't feel like an intruder even though Grace's attention is now all on Boyd. _Yes,_ Eve thinks, _it is what it is._

_\- the end -_


End file.
